


For Thine Is the Kingdom

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-02
Updated: 2007-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam isn't sure what changed or when, or maybe it's that nothing's changed at all, but he can just see it more clearly now, has the perspective of distance and time to show him that it's always been there, drawing them together even when he was trying his hardest to pull them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Thine Is the Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> Luzdeestrellas wanted happy, schmoopy Wincest (thanks for the beta, btw) - I do it all for you, darlin'. Somehow my brain decided [**The Hollow Men**](http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/784/) was a good inspiration for that. I don't even know. Let's call this an aggressively transgressive reinterpretation of the text. It's actually a happy story; don't be put off by the section headers.

i. Our dried voices, when / We whisper together / Are quiet and meaningless / As wind in dry grass

When Dean comes out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips and skin still damp from his shower, there are white flecks of foam clinging to his cheek and his jaw. Sam watches him for a long moment, caught by the sinuous strength of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders tapering down to slim hips, the smooth movement of muscle under supple skin. By the sudden urge to lick at the moisture still lingering in the hollow between his collarbones.

Sam swallows hard and closes his eyes for a moment, telling himself the squirmy feeling in his belly is disgust, not desire. He forces his voice not to shake when he says, "Bobby called." Dean nods, dropping his towel and pawing through his duffel for clean underwear. Sam wants to turn away but can't, even though he's seen Dean naked a thousand times if he's seen him once; now, it's like he's never seen Dean before, and he can't look away. "They've got a ghost problem down in Beaumont," he continues, voice as dry as the brown summer grass out in the parking lot. He swallows again, trying to find some moisture that isn't beaded on Dean's skin. "There's an old hospital being torn down to make way for a new one--eighty people died in a fire there in 1996."

"Okay," Dean says, oblivious to Sam's sudden thirst. He pulls on his jeans and runs a hand through his wet hair, shaking water all over Sam, laughing when Sam forces himself to recoil, instead of leaning in. Dean's fingers, still damp, ruffle through Sam's hair, and Sam shivers under the touch. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam says, hoarse, and Dean looks at him funny, but shrugs one shoulder and lets it go.

Sam's skin feels tight, itchy, like he's too big to be contained; he remembers feeling this way at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, growing faster than they could keep him in food or clothes, wanting more than what Dad and Dean could give him. He'd ended up leaving, too big for his family to contain. He wonders what's growing inside him now, and whether he'll have to leave again to deal with it.

He goes outside, stands in the parking lot and breathes in exhaust-flavored air in the humid morning. Dean follows, still shirtless, and bumps his shoulder into Sam's. It's supposed to be comforting, friendly, but it makes Sam shiver again, obvious in the heat.

Dean cocks his head, curious now. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Sam lies again. "Yeah."

"Okay." Dean gives another shrug, and heads back into the room to finish dressing.

Sam stands out in front of the room for another fifteen minutes, thinking, I am so fucked.

*

ii. Eyes I dare not meet in dreams / In death's dream kingdom / These do not appear: / There, the eyes are / Sunlight on a broken column

"Dude, you've gotta get your head in the game. You zone out like that again, it's my ass in the sling," Dean is saying, but he sounds very far away. Sam's hands are shaking just enough to be noticeable, and Dean, well, Dean notices. It's what he does. His tone immediately softens. "Sam, Sam, Sammy. It's okay, man."

"It's not, Dean. You're right. I was...distracted." He'd been _watching_ Dean, but he hadn't been _seeing_ him--he'd been imagining him pressed up against the wall they were using for cover, with Sam's hands on his face and one thigh pressing up between his legs, instead of focusing on the job. "I wasn't paying attention and you could have been--God--You could have been killed." He wraps a hand around Dean's arm, holds tight, as if that alone will keep him here, keep him safe. Dean's only got ten months left, unless Sam can figure out how to save him, and getting him killed before then is definitely not on Sam's agenda.

"You've been distracted for days, Sam. You feel like sharing?"

Sam laughs. For once, Dean actually wants to talk, and Sam can't tell him what's going on. "Just tired."

Dean looks skeptical, but he says, "Yeah, okay," and slides behind the wheel of the car.

The sun is rising and they're heading into it, Dean flipping the visor down and fumbling for his sunglasses with one hand, the other steady on the wheel.

Sam leans his head against the window, lets the music and the rhythm of the tires lull him. He's in that hazy state between sleeping and waking, daydreaming about a hot shower, a good meal, a bed that isn't too short or too lumpy, and Dean, warm and solid under his hands, his mouth. He nibbles at the curve of Dean's jaw, the stubble rough against his lips, and Dean arches against him with a whimper that sends a jolt of heat right to Sam's dick, and he presses closer, growling in response.

"Dude, not in the car!" Dean says, slapping Sam's thigh, startling him awake. He glances over, grinning. "Must have been a good dream. Who was she? Was she hot?"

Sam doesn't have to feign annoyance when he says, "Shut up," his mouth curving in a frown. He hasn't had a vision since they killed the demon, and he wonders if this is some new way the supernatural has found to fuck with him, if he really did come back wrong, and this is how it's manifesting. He's not sure if that's more or less comforting than the idea that he wants to have sex with his brother of his own volition.

He shifts uncomfortably, runs through the periodic table in his head to get rid of his unwanted erection, and forces himself to stay awake for the rest of the ride, ignoring the concerned looks Dean throws in his direction.

"You sure you're okay?" Dean asks when he's flipping Zeppelin IV from side one to side two. "You've been kinda... quiet lately." Dean glances over at him again. "If you wanna talk..." He leaves it hanging, an invitation Sam is definitely not going to take him up on.

"I'm fine, Dean. I swear, if you ask me again, I'm gonna start throwing punches."

Dean's expression is speculative, but he doesn't ask again, and Sam concentrates on not thinking about him naked. It works until they get to the motel, anyway.

*

iii. At the hour when we are / Trembling with tenderness / Lips that would kiss / Form prayers to broken stone

Dean still watches him, and sometimes Sam thinks he sees something more than concern in his eyes, something that makes heat flicker in his belly, under his skin, a mixture of embarrassment and want that leaves Sam aching and breathless. He tells himself he's imagining it, seeing what he wants to see, and then he reminds himself he doesn't want to see it at all, because he's not thinking of Dean like that, no sir, he's not jerking off in the shower imagining Dean's hands on his body or Dean's mouth on his dick.

They're sitting shoulder to shoulder on Sam's bed, watching reruns of "Full House," because it's the only channel that comes in clearly, and Sam's tired of being a human antenna so Dean can watch soft-core porn on Cinemax. He doesn't mention that he's tired of watching Dean's reactions, the way his pupils dilate and his mouth goes slack, pink tip of his tongue peeking out and teasing Sam with the way it occasionally swipes across his lower lip, the way his hands fist in the sheet or on his thigh, like he's holding back his reaction because Sam is there.

And it's not like he doesn't know what Dean sounds like when he jacks off, or even when he's having sex, because Dean's not always quiet and he's never been shy. The way they grew up, the way they live now, the rule has always been pretend to be sleeping, pretend you don't hear (it makes Sam laugh, really, that the one thing they're allowed to ignore in the dark is each other), and until recently, it had worked out fine. Sam isn't sure what changed or when, or maybe it's that nothing's changed at all, but he can just see it more clearly now, has the perspective of distance and time to show him that it's always been there, drawing them together even when he was trying his hardest to pull them apart. Maybe it's that he knows time is running out now and he can't lose any more than he already has, can't risk it passing without getting to the heart of this, too.

Dean takes a long sip of beer, lips tight around the bottle, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He sets the empty down on the night table and turns to say something to Sam, mouth glistening.

Sam doesn't think he can stand to hear another comment about how stupid Uncle Jesse's hair is, or how it's possible the Olsen twins are actually gargoyles in disguise. He leans in and captures Dean's lower lip between his, tasting beer and salt.

Dean pulls back, startled, eyes wide and hand already coming up to push him away, but he doesn't, _he doesn't_. Dean's fingers curl in the worn cotton of Sam's t-shirt, and he says, "Sam?" in the same low, urgent tone he uses to make sure Sam is still alive when they're hunting, and that's all the encouragement Sam needs.

And Sam says, "Yeah," and leans in to kiss him again, lick into his mouth, greedy and eager to take what Dean will give him, the rough-slick glide of his tongue and the soft stuttered gasp of his breath, the choked syllable of his name the answer to every question he's ever asked.

This time, Sam pulls away, and they're both breathing heavily. "Okay?" he says, his hand on Dean's face a question, a reassurance.

"Yeah," Dean says, mouth curving in a grin, lips wet and red from their kisses. "You?"

Sam laughs, surprised, though maybe he shouldn't be. They've always been scarily in sync, so maybe he should have known. "Yeah."

*

iv. In this last of meeting places / We grope together / And avoid speech

They don't talk about it, which is par for the course. We do what we do and we shut up about it is the Winchester family motto, after all, learned at their father's knee, and okay, Sam understands _why_, even _agrees_ in a way that Dean doesn't always seem to (and how weird is it these days that he's the one toeing Dad's line and Dean's the one rebelling? But he can't think about Dad when Dean is tumbling him down onto the bed and tipping his head up for a kiss, because then it's really easy to remember why they don't talk about this), and as much as Sam's tried to change that, he knows he'll have no luck on this subject. Not yet, anyway, but that's okay too, because at the moment, he has better things to do with his mouth. Dean's tongue flutters against Sam's palate, sending shivers of heat and need down his spine, drawing a whimper from low in his throat.

Dean laughs, the curve of his smile familiar and yet foreign from this angle, something new to be explored with lips and tongue and fingers, the brush of his stubble rough against Sam's fingertips, the freckles on his skin scattered like stars for Sam to map and count and claim.

They fuck the way they fight, territory explored relentlessly and taken with a ruthlessness that leaves them both satisfied and aching for more, weaknesses catalogued and exploited--nipping this spot _here_ on the underside of Dean's jaw will make him moan and whimper, licking that spot _there_ on his belly will make him squirm and gasp--until they're both too fucked out to do more than lie there, exhausted, until they drift off to dreamless sleep.

Sam thinks about time, about each minute, hour, day that passes bringing them closer to the possibility that he'll lose Dean, that there is no way to save him, that he'll fail the one time he desperately needs to succeed, and damn them both to hell.

It's always been hard to tell where he ends and Dean begins--one of the reasons he'd left was because he was afraid he'd never be himself, would always be a part of _SamandDean_, their father snapping out their names in one breath like they were a single two-headed entity instead of two separate boys with separate needs and desires. He used to tell himself he was doing it as much for Dean's sake as his own, but he realizes now he is too wrapped up in Dean and Dean in him for them to ever have separated as cleanly as he'd wished. And now he just wants to put them back together again, heal over all the broken places, knit them back together stronger than they were before.

*

v. Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow

Dean is spread out beneath him, and in the flickering light from the television, his supple, freckled skin gleams pale and inviting, its perfection marred only by the scattering of silvered scars Sam reads by touch, knows by heart, each one a silent declaration of Dean's love, his desire to protect, his need to be needed. Sam kisses them all, soft wet swipe of lips and tongue making Dean shiver and gasp and mutter, "Come the fuck on, Sam," but Sam is taking his time, trying to make each moment last as long as possible, afraid of how much time they've already lost, how little they might have left.

He slides down the bed, thumbs the slit on the head of Dean's cock before licking at it, the salt-musk taste of sweat and pre-come familiar now, desired. Dean moans low and arches up, but Sam holds him down, takes his time with this, too, licking the shaft, burying his nose in the wiry curls at the base and breathing in, feeling his own body respond to the scent and taste and feel of Dean surrounding him. Dean writhes beneath him, fingers tightening hard enough to sting in Sam's hair, bitten-off curses falling from his lips, _Fuck, Sam_ and _goddammit_, but still, Sam takes his time, savoring every twist and growl Dean gives him. Finally, he takes Dean's dick in his mouth, the warm skin velvety soft and the weight of it reassuring on his tongue. He slides his lips down as far as he can, one hand wrapped around the base, the other teasing Dean's balls, and sucks.

Dean lets out a low, guttural moan that sounds almost painful, and comes, warm and bitter in Sam's mouth, and Sam swallows, has learned to do this for Dean the way Jess used to do it for him, and Dean has stopped trying to pull away. Sam's on the edge himself, moves up the bed and ruts against Dean's hip until Dean takes him in hand and finishes him off, laughing breathlessly as Sam comes, eyes dark with all the things he'll never say, but Sam hears them now, and understands.

Instead, he says things like, "Don't forget to get my coffee, bitch," and "Don't use all the hot water," and Sam answers with, "Get it yourself," and "Fuck you," the way he always has.

Fucking Dean is nothing like he thought it would be, when he started thinking about it--it hasn't changed anything, hasn't made anything easier, has only reminded him of how far gone from normal they are, how they always have been, and probably always will be.

He thinks he's finally accepted that this is their life, and he's determined to keep it intact, whatever it takes, and if it takes opening himself up to the possibility of his powers (and now that he needs them, he can't even think about them disappearing), of learning to control demons in order to save Dean's soul, he'll do it. He hopes he can do it without losing his own soul in the process, but he's willing to take the chance.

end

~*~


End file.
